Page 5 of The Duelist for the Ton
“I rather think that’s the point of a duel, old chap,” Cholmondeley-Walker said, a hint of amusement in his voice.
“I could be dying!” Sir Baldwin’s voice took on a petulant tone—the degree of petulance indication enough of the superficiality of the injury. At least, the injury to hisbody. Doubtless the injury to his pride was of greater severity.
“It’s just a flesh wound,” the Farthing said. “I merely grazed your ear.”
“I’m bleeding!”
Did you whine like that in the nursery when you wanted your nanny?
Gerard let out a giggle, then stifled it.
“That part of the ear bleeds profusely, Sir Baldwin,” the Farthing said. “You now have a trophy befitting a duelist—a bloodied shirt, which you can show to your wife as a demonstration of how deeply you value her honor.”
Sir Baldwin removed his hand from his ear, and red liquid trickled down his throat. “You could havekilledme!”
“Give mesomecredit,” the Farthing replied. “If I wanted to kill you, I’d have aimed for your heart.”
“You mean you shot his ear onpurpose?” Cholmondeley-Walker said.
“Did you want me to kill your friend?” the Farthing asked.
Cholmondeley-Walker colored and averted his gaze.
“I’m not in the habit of ending a man’s life, no matter the provocation,” the Farthing continued. “The terms of our contract were that I emerge victorious in a duel on your behalf. My duty, and therefore your honor, has been discharged successfully, at little cost to yourself.”
“Fifty pounds isn’t what I’d call a little cost,” Cholmondeley-Walker huffed.
“Cheap enough, compared to a man’s life.”
“Sir Baldwin would never have bested me—he’s a terrible shot.”
“Which is a largely academic argument, given that you paid me to duel on your behalf. But I would beg to disagree. The most dangerous of opponents is a man unacquainted with the skills of marksmanship—for one never knows where his bullet will end up. A shot to the stomach is a worse fate than a shot to the heart. Both result in the same ultimate fate, but the former comes with considerably more pain.”
“You seem well acquainted with the business of death,” Cholmondeley-Walker said. “Do you serve in the militia?”
“I have no profession.”
“A gentleman, then? Might I stand you a drink at White’s this afternoon?”
“I am not a member of White’s. But I give you leave to boast about your prowess at the dueling field over a brandy in the clubroom.”
“Come as my guest, then. I insist on knowing to whom I’m indebted.”
“There is no debt, sir. You paid me for a service, which I have rendered. Unless you wish to hire my services again, I see no reason for us to further our acquaintance.”
“At least tell me your name.”
“Myskillis for hire—not my name.”
“Then I’ll take your mask off myself.” Cholmondeley-Walker took a step forward.
“Try it, if you dare,” the Farthing said. “But know this. My very existence demands anonymity—without it, the Farthing is no more. Given your penchant for eyeing up other men’s wives, you may be in need of my services again. If I am, as you suspect, a mere boy, would you weather the ridicule of your friends at White’s if it were known that you were both bested by an adolescent fresh from the schoolroom?”
Sir Baldwin caught Cholmondeley-Walker’s wrist. “Leave the fellow be,” he said. “Honor has been satisfied. You’re fifty pounds lighter and I’m down the price of a necklace. You can boast of your victory and I’ll have a forgiving wife waiting for me in the bedchamber. Sometimes it’s best to know when to walk away.”
Well, well, Sir Baldwin—there’s evidence of a little wit between those ears of yours. Perhaps there’s some hope for you yet.
The Farthing issued a bow. “In which case, gentlemen, I’ll bid you good morning. Sir Baldwin, do give your wife my best wishes for her happiness. Sophia, her name is, if I recall?”
